


a story for which the world is not yet prepared; estranged and desperately unspoken

by teaandforeshadowing (Shanimalx)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dead Mary Watson, Desperately unspoken, First Kiss, Fix-It, Friendship, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is moran/moriarty, Mutual Pining, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, all the things they should have said but never have, either one you pick, guess what they dont say them here either psych, the final problem never happened, yeah they kiss but its not happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9523646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shanimalx/pseuds/teaandforeshadowing
Summary: Sherlock risks a visit to Baker Street when he gets an unexpected visitor (it's John). Their time together is fleeting, and there are still so many words desperately unspoken, but is the world ready to hear their story yet?--Let's just pretend that Mary is either dead or the real Moriarty, and she or Moriarty's minions are coming after John and Sherlock and they have to do some crazy secret spy shit in order to take them down again. John and Sherlock secretly come to Baker Street to reminisce and feel sad and gay and neither of them actually happen to be there at the same time and its fucking miracle that Moriwhoever hasn't caught on and killed them yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This went from a 500-word idea to a 3k-word final product. Oops.
> 
> This was originally an idea I came up with after TST, under the theory that John and Sherlock's "estrangement" was because of Sherlock crafting an alibi for John for shooting Mary (oh man remember the good old days of TST meta before TFP??), and that John was doing some secret stuff for Mycroft or some shit, so I ran with that idea and ended up with something similar to those kinds of canon-divergence post-trf fics where John tags along with Sherlock to take down Moriarty's web. Except now he has a kid and a dead/divorced wife so it's sadder.
> 
> My first actual Johnlock fic, please be gentle. (not beta'd)
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr at teaandqueerbaiting.tumblr.com

No one lives at Baker Street these days, but Sherlock visits anyway. He shouldn’t be here, too suspicious, but he can’t help himself, and the desire to remember those days before everything went to shit is more powerful than his willpower to stop his legs from climbing the stairs.

He sits in his chair, and a red plaid blanket sits gathering dust on the one opposite him. _Eloquent_ , his brain supplies, and he is painfully reminded of the last time John’s chair sat empty. His eyes threaten to water, so he takes a deep breath and closes them, focusing instead on the smells that linger just below the dust. The remnants of Thai takeout, formaldehyde in the fridge, John’s pea dish. He smacks his lips as that thought leads him to think about John making him tea on the weekends.

He hears the end of John’s favorite violin piece, and the smiling praise that greets it. He absently runs a finger along his violin case. _More dust_ , his heart aches. He wishes he’d gotten to play it for John one last time. John’s chuckles ring out over the crap telly, and his heart swells at how charming it is. Familiar footfalls sound on the stairs, and deductions flood him with old memories.

 _Slower than normal, and lopsided_ , his brain supplies. It’s been a long day at the clinic, and he’ll be in the mood for a nice murderer to chase around London to take the edge off. Breathless laughter in the stairwell, a few fingers of whiskey, and a maybe Bond movie to end the night.  Sherlock smiles sadly that his brain would fill in the silence with only his fondest memories, he realizes those exact nights when he fell just a little bit deeper.

And then the door to 221B opens.

Sherlock is snapped out of his fantasy when he hears the surprised but soft “Oh!”. 

“John,” he breathes, and suddenly he is standing, his legs carrying him closer to the door in a few short steps. John meets him half way. 

Months without any kind of direct contact has him starving to make up for it with some kind of physical connection. But what’s appropriate for the moment that faces them now? A handshake? A hug? Full-on sex?

“I–ahem–wasn’t expecting you to be here.” Johns voice is so soft and cautious, like speaking any louder could shatter the fragile opportunity that fate has handed to them. It suddenly occurs to Sherlock how stupid he is for thinking the John in his mind palace could do the real thing any justice, and Sherlock’s ears are suddenly so full, and he’s suddenly desperate to say _anything_ in order to hear John speak again. 

He nods. “I was…” he starts, but finds himself at a loss. John has seen him sitting in his chair, eyes closed. What could possibly be said as a plausible excuse to be somewhere he shouldn’t?

But John merely nods accompanied by a smooth hum, and Sherlock’s attention is drawn downwards when he nervously shuffles a bag from his left to his right hand. _Lopsided._ John’s eyes subconsciously follow his.

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Just some of Mary’s things.” It comes out halted like the words are being painfully forced up. Sherlock wants to run his hands down his neck to soothe it for him. He restrains himself until John drops the bag with a shake of his head and reaches for him.

Sherlock releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in when Johns arms finally take hold of him. He’s had many hugs in his lifetime, and some of them were even enjoyable, but he never imagined that a hug could make him feel…complete. It was the kind of Complete that would make you wonder how on earth you managed to convince yourself you weren’t living such an empty life, and how you managed to ever survive it until now.  As if slotting against another person was like finding the last piece of a puzzle he thought he’d already finished. 

“It’s good to see you again,” John sighs into his collarbone. It sends a jolt of electricity straight to his heart which pounds ferociously next to John’s. The simple contact has his mind reeling with everything he’s wanted to say but never had - _And you. I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m sorry it had to be this way._ _I miss you. I need you._

He settles for “and you” before anything else leaves his mouth that he might regret. After all, nothing good had ever come from trying to protect John. If he’d just told John he wasn’t dead, he never would have needed therapy or met Mary. If he’d just told John about Mary’s true nature, he never would have married her and had a daughter. If he’d just backed off and let John live his married life, he never would have found out the truth. If he had just left well enough alone, Mary’s past wouldn’t have caught up to her, and John wouldn’t have to be a single father. 

Pain strikes him hard in the stomach at the thought of Rosie growing up without a mother. Of course John wouldn’t be the only one to suffer, how could he have forgotten?

A hand brushes softly up Sherlock’s spine, and it grounds him in the present again. “I’m glad you’re okay. It’s hard to tell in the messages you send.” Heavily coded, for their protection, but it warms Sherlock’s heart to hear he’s able to work them out. _My clever Watson_.

“A necessary precaution,” he explains. The nature of their mission demands that what little contact they have with each other in cryptic messages through drop points and the homeless network contains only the most vital information. If their system allowed it, Sherlock would gladly send John a ten-page essay every day detailing how wonderful John is for putting up with him, and how he doesn’t deserve such a man as a best friend and confidant, and how much Sherlock regrets their arrangement. Regrets the past that led them to this present, but alas fate was not so kind.

“I know,” John concedes, bunching up the back of Sherlock’s shirt as his hands close into fists. He knows, but he doesn’t agree, and Sherlock feels a lump form in his throat at the sentiment of it all.

“Speaking of, we shouldn’t be here.” Together. At the same time. At all, really. But John still has his arms curled around Sherlock, and his fists wrapped up in his shirt, and Sherlock is starting to lose track of time. “Suspicious.” is all he can manage to spit out as explanation.

“Yeah,” John agrees, and he slowly withdraws from their embrace, leaving Sherlock’s chest feeling empty and cold. “But,” he continues, shedding his coat, “there’s no harm in a quick cuppa, is there?” He moves to the kitchen to put the kettle on and grab the mugs, and Sherlock opens his mouth to object. The longer they sit around, the more likely it is they’ll be found out. It was risky enough for Sherlock to come here alone, but the two of them together will surely draw too much attention. The sooner they leave Baker Street, the better. “Since we’re here, we might as well get each other up to speed. Go over everything we can’t fit into secret notes? Who knows when we’ll have an opportunity like this again." 

The thought of not seeing John again for months makes his stomach sink and his mouth snap shut, and suddenly he understands why John is delaying the inevitable. Neither of them are eager to let this moment go. It’s dangerous, what they’re doing, but their life together has always been dangerous. "Dangerous” is what brought John to him on their first case. 

“Indeed,” he relents. 

* * *

They sit quietly in their chairs, sipping their tea and relishing the calm silence of 221B. The usual afternoon traffic is nothing more than a dull hum outside, as if the flat itself is willing time to go just a little slower in order for them to have this day to themselves. 

“I’m starting to get the hang of the vigenere,” John says into his mug. “It was a tricky one at first, but Steve helped me work it out." 

"That’s good,” Sherlock says into his. The steam warms his face and it smells just like it tastes - perfectly blended the way John knows he likes it.  "How is Lestrade faring?“

"Good, great. He’s still a bit out of his depth with all this secrecy business, but he gets me what I need.”

Sherlock nods. “Probably better he doesn’t get too involved.”

“He’s still seeing D.I. Hopkins.” Sherlock lets out a disbelieving huff. “No, no, they’re getting on really well. They’ve both been on the top of their game lately. They make each other better.”

Sherlock’s hand stops its journey to his lips at the phrase, which was uttered with the kind of wistful sadness that one would use in remembering a childhood home, before it was torn down and replaced by a strip mall. He glances up over the top of his mug to find John staring morosely into his. 

“John,” he breathes. “I’m sorry for putting you through all of this.” John looks up at him and hums quizically through a mouthful of tea. “You should be home enjoying your life with your daughter, not running covert errands for me. It’s not fair.”

He’s already shaking his head before Sherlock can finish speaking. “No, Sherlock, that’s not– Nothing is ever fair. Not for us. I’m perfectly happy to do this with you. It’s just what we do. And I’m the one who married her, it’s at least partly my responsibility to clean up this mess. She told me she loved me, and I believed it because it’s what I needed to hear. It’s my fault for dismissing my own feelings and letting it get as far as it did.” He takes another sip of his tea and lets the statement hang in the air between them. Sherlock can sense that there are other words there as well, words that have been there between their chairs for years, sitting silently, waiting to be acknowledged. The thing is, Sherlock can’t tell anymore which ones are his. 

“I understand what needs to be done,” John begins again, but quieter this time, “and I’d follow you anywhere to do it. I just want this over with so we can get on with our lives.”

A rush of affection swarms Sherlock’s chest, and the room brightens as if those unspoken words were blocking the sunlight instead of the curtains. “Thank you, John,” he smiles.

His mug is too light, but he brings it his lips anyway, willing it to magically fill again. He hears the dull ringing of John’s mug landing on the side table, and Sherlock knows their meeting has come to an end. Their tea is finished, their time is up. 

He stands and takes a deep breath to prepare himself for what he has to say, and he hopes John will understand how much he doesn’t want to say it. “We should get going. If we linger any longer, people may start to talk.”

A smile creeps onto John’s face as he gets up to meet him by the door, and Sherlock is glad for the rare glimpse of happiness one last time. “People do little else." 

Sherlock smiles back at him, but it fades too quickly. He wishes they had more tea. He wishes they had more time. He wishes the circumstances were different. 

John takes his coat off the rack and shrugs into it again, and it’s like watching him become a different man. His John, the blogger and constant companion and best friend who’ll follow him to the ends of the earth becomes Dr. Watson, the widower and single father and general practitioner, who sees a therapist on Wednesday afternoons. Sherlock wants to strip him of the jacket again, along with his shirt and tie and his trousers so that he can run his hands over the bare skin and scars and show John how much he prefers the former.

"I’ll head out the back precisely 23 minutes after you and check for anyone who may be watching. Send word as soon as you can,” Sherlock asks, almost pleading. He hasn’t even left yet and he’s already desperate to hear from John again. 

“Right.” John picks up the bag of Mary’s things from where he dropped it hours (days? years?) ago and shuffles his feet, fixes his coat collar, and stares regrettably down the stairs ahead of him. 

Sherlock wants to walk him down the door, to see him off and not leave him until the last possible second. The front step of 221 Baker Street is where their privacy begins and ends. It’s the last defense against the prying eyes of the public, but even they are able to catch a glimpse into their secret life when the door is opened. As much as he hates it, it’s safer to remain upstairs. 

“This will all be over soon, John,” he reassures him. _We’ll be together again soon,_ he means.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” John complains to the stairs.

Sherlock smiles painfully. “No, I don’t like it either. But it’s all necessary, at least until the danger has passed. Someday it’ll be safe for us to go back to the way things were, but not now.” He turns and speaks to the stairs and the door and the millions of ears waiting just outside, and he stands up a little straighter when he realizes he’s reassuring himself as well.  "The world’s just not ready for us to come out yet.“ 

His subconscious counters with a rogue thought, _And what if I don’t want us to go back to the way things were?_ It’s almost painful for him to consider as John futzes with the bag in his hands, and Sherlock grips the mug he forgot he was still holding just a little tighter.

"Well,” he sighs, and John looks up at him for what he’s sure to be the last time in a long time. He’s already cataloged the roughness of John’s fingers along his forearm as they search for incriminating pinpricks, and the nuances of color in John’s hair when the sunlight hits at every angle, but nothing matters more to him now than the depth of emotion that sits behind John’s eyes. He _has_ to remember this look forever, for it’s all he will have until they can meet again. 

They stare at each other for a long time in complete silence, but words still pass between them, desperately unsure and unspoken. Words not yet permitted to be said aloud, communicated with a single look. Sherlock’s just about had enough - any longer and he may just start to cry. 

“Well,” he says again, louder, and gesturing behind him with his mug. “Goodbye, John.” He steps away towards the kitchen to busy himself at the sink in an effort to distract himself from the fact that John is leaving him and Baker Street _again_ , but a warm hand catches the sleeve of his shirt.

“Wait.”

Sherlock turns and meets a steady gaze–John has decided something. He takes a step forward and they’re closer than they were before. Sherlock feels a tug on his sleeve and the angle of John’s chin changes slightly enough for him to understand. He lowers his face, ear cocked to hear John’s soft parting message. They are in each other’s breathing space, and Sherlock can smell this morning’s coffee, and last night’s Indian take out, and a lingering hint of alcohol and baby formula. It’s a smell he imagines falling asleep and waking up to everyday. 

They pause. They linger in each other’s spaces for a fraction of a second, and then Sherlock realizes he’s miscalculated. When solid fingers ghost over his cheekbones and guide him facing forward again, his heartbeat stops. 

Eyes glide softly closed, and lips part. The connection is warm and deep, but soft and fragile. Fleeting. John takes Sherlock’s hand and puts it to his heart, covering it with his own like a promise, a gift. _It’s yours. I’ll be back._

Before he has time to react, John breaks away.

“John,” Sherlock breathes again. His eyes are still closed, dreading that the joy and relief he feels that very moment will be scared away by the fear and longing that’s been looming over him since they first left Baker Street, since he first came back from the dead, since their first case together.

“Be safe,” he hears John mutter, and those steady fingers leave a trail of what must be scalding burns to that magical spot at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. 

Chills shudder through him when they’re gone. 

* * *

There is a six-second pause between his last ( _slower than normal, lopsided_ ) step down the stairs and the sound of the door opening. A pause that starts a 23-minute countdown. 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to go for the feeling that Sherlock and John both know what they could be now that Mary is gone (dead or just gone from their lives is up to you), but for fear of fucking it all up again and hurting John more, Sherlock restrains himself. John tries to let him know that it's ok, that he'll willingly endure any hardships that come their way as long as Sherlock is there with him. I hope I got it right.
> 
> I was also kinda going for a kind of parallel with the whole "our collaboration/relationship is secret, the world isn't ready yet, it's not safe for us, moriarty/homophobia is still alive" and that's why they can't say the Desperately Unspoken Words yet so I hope that got through okay. (Pls talk to me about my literary devices, I need to know I'm doing well)
> 
> They were originally supposed to run into each other in an alley and kiss if you can believe it, but I am not creative enough to think of a reason why they'd both be running around in an alley. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Just some other notes about the universe this exists in: In my mind, Sherlock leaves John notes in the newspaper by marking off letters in a certain news section (it's probably sports) to form a code. They switch code types every so often just to be safe and Sherlock makes sure to denote which code he's using before starting the actual code ("VIG", "CAE", "SKIP", etc.) whenever they switch. He includes the Vigenere key as the last few letters of the coded message, usually something mundane but meaningful, like "idiots", or "cluedo", or "stbarts".
> 
> Sherlock "donates" marked papers to members of his homeless network, who deliver them to wherever they need to go, whether that be Steve at the newsstand on the way home from John's clinic, or the teacher (whose husband was caught and jailed before he could turn a double homicide into a triple thanks to Sherlock) at the "Baby and Me" bonding classes John goes to every weekend, or the barista at the coffee shop John occasionally stops in to wind down with a book while Rosie's still chillin' with Molly.
> 
> The messages are usually the names of criminals working with Mary/Moriarty, or tips about how to """stumble upon""" some incriminating evidence, which John then """stumbles upon""" and calls Lestrade and helps them do whatever. Just typically things that will help the assholes get caught in a way that doesn't directly tie John or Lestrade or anyone back to Sherlock (no one wants a repeat of TRF). 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and critiques are welcome and encouraged!


End file.
